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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26471083">For Cardassia</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicaV/pseuds/SpicaV'>SpicaV</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Deep Space Nine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Violence, Cardassian Culture, Declarations Of Love, M/M, Male Bonding, Male Friendship, Post-A Stitch in Time - Andrew Robinson, Post-Canon, Resettlement, Survivor Guilt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:07:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,158</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26471083</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicaV/pseuds/SpicaV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bashir comes home to Garak and Cardassia, three years after the Dominion War.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Julian Bashir/Elim Garak</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>For Cardassia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“ETA to Cardassia Prime twenty minutes,” the cool voice of the computer said, just as Doctor Julian Bashir zipped up his Starfleet-issue duffel. Heart so high in his throat he could feel his pulse against his tongue. Figurative, of course. He loved the play of language in literature, but when it came to xenoanatomy he was a staunch realist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cardassia soon loomed outside the windows of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Defiant,</span>
  </em>
  <span> verdant and overgrown in the rural provinces, starbursts of sterile dust in what had once been city centers: Lakarian City, Lakat, Guran Center, Tirdar, Loilla. Bashir stood a long moment, watching the planet turning against a backdrop of deceptively tranquil stars. So much burned. The stars, the planet, clusters of campfires, the remains of the dead. The Cardassians still found them, years later. Bleach-white bones fed into funeral pyres and buried with reverence in mass graves, later marked with plaques of bronze and endless lists of names. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once the DNA identifications came back, of course. That was a whole new industry on the planet, the results lagged and sporadic due to lack of resources, but always thorough. The identifying scientists were Cardassians, after all, naturally gifted with the ability to categorize and devoted to detail.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bashir to Transporter Room 6.” Lieutenant Nog’s precise voice rasped over the comm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On my way,” he said to the air, not bothering with his badge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nog’s voice had become even more clipped and proper once he made full lieutenant; Bashir had a running bet with Miles O’Brien that the boy would become the second-youngest captain in Starfleet. The young Ferengi was a fixture on the bridge of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Defiant,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his hands fleet and mind quick. He took over when Sisko phased out into one of his frequent communications with the Wormhole Aliens—Prophets, according to the captain and Kira—and knew to integrate the information that Sisko brought from the great Wherever he went. Theirs was an almost symbiotic relationship, a twist of fate that Bashir never would have seen coming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heat enveloped him once he materialized on the planet. The other medical staff and technicians went right, toward the rudimentary hospital wards and power generation sectors in the capital city. Bashir stepped down from the transporter pad and walked left, assessing the progress that had been made in three short years. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ruins of Cardassia remained, though there was an outpouring of defiance and effort that improved the once-sharp edges of destroyed buildings and infrastructure. Where sewage once ran down the center of the streets, routed by shin-high dams and canals, new piping hummed and purified. The cobblestone streets of the city center had been swept clean of night soil and ash, the remaining structures and stalls reclaimed. The order of Cardassian society remained topsy turvy in the aftermath of their defeat: an assayer’s office had become a food distribution center. A tribunal office now hosted a speakeasy-style bar, and a defunct confectionery stand had been converted into a counseling center.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He paused as a few children scampered across the street, an older girl laughing and chasing two smaller boys. The girl had Bajoran ridges on her nose, one of the orphans from Bajor that had been reclaimed by her Cardassian relatives in the aftermath of so much loss. Her grey skirt swirled about her gangly legs, and she glanced at Bashir with a look of startled recognition before following the full-blood boys down the evening sidewalk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now that the raging sun of day had cooled the Cardassians were stirring and socializing on pedestrian streets, the full burn of sun too hot, even for a species that prized heat. This was a dry heat, not the jungle humidity that Cardassians loved. The Dominion made sure to ruin the climate for broad bands of the planet, particularly that of the main capital city. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...Starfleet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bashir glanced back at a knot of Cardassian women whispering among themselves. Three with black hair loose and unstyled, a fourth with her henna-red hair in a simple braid. Their expressions were kind and excited, rather than suspicious; they pointed to their collars, indicating to one another that he was a doctor, and the redheaded one approached with a hike of her deep orange skirts over thin grey legs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are a doctor?” She asked, her large brown eyes bright and smile friendly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am,” Bashir said, pausing. Putting on his most solicitous expression, the warmth in his voice honestly meant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We are in need of doctors.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then you are in luck. I am to take a position at the Milanova Clinic for the forthcoming year.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The three women back against the building chattered in soft voices at this revelation, and one laid a hand over her belly. Bashir noticed that it was gently curved, indicating the early second quadmester of pregnancy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah! Welcome,” the woman said, grinning. She lacked her two upper incisors, the line of gums suggesting that she had lost them some time during the final blitz. “We are grateful for your presence here, Doctor…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bashir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sobered. “Elim Garak’s friend. Then you are familiar with our plight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Indeed. I have been here twice since the final assault. Once at Guran Center, the other at Loilla.” Bashir hiked his duffel to his left shoulder; it was getting heavy. “I am pleased to be here at the Capitol, this time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You need help finding Garak’s house? The city has changed much since you were here last. There are trees, for one. The Federation Relief Society helped transplant them from Rikara Province. And by the way, I am Tilor.” The woman bowed, then turned and began to walk in the direction of Garak’s house, located on the grounds of the late Enabran Tain. She pitched her voice low at Bashir as he followed. “Come. You might know the way, but I will walk with you for a space. I need an excuse to escape my sister Gili. She is bragging about being the one to birth the very first of the new generation post-Dominion in our family. I am afraid it has quite gone to her head.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“First-time mother? That is always an exciting time—” Bashir broke off when he noticed Tilor’s stricken expression. Mentally kicked himself. He should have known better. “I see. I am sorry to have assumed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tilor sighed. “It is well. I wish I could forget what happened to our people after our foolish devotion to those Dominion </span>
  <em>
    <span>quaratti.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Gili had a son. He died in the final attack. Asleep, fortunately, but the house came down on top of us. He never woke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am sorry. There are no words adequate enough to express the grief for that kind of loss.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There are not,” Tilor said, her dark eyes grim. She patted his upper arm, a neutral place on the Cardassian—and Human—body. “You are more than forgiven, Bashir. Our grief is not yours, and I find it refreshing to have one so untouched by sorrows.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bashir frowned. “I have lost many friends, though. And patients. Starfleet losses were heavy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Here Tilor winced and blushed, the fine blue duan color feathering across her cheeks and in the well of her forehead chufa. “Now it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> turn to say sorry. I should have said ‘one who has not lost most of his planet,’ rather than suggest that you are one who does not know grief.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let us both forgive each other,” Bashir said, hiking the duffel higher. He smiled and held out his hand. “Truce?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Happily.” Tilor shook his hand as they walked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of Cardassia’s three moons eased up from the horizon and cast milky light through the spindly fronds of tainan trees. Bashir admired the effect, and Tilor named the satellite Illum as she glowed with pride for her homeworld. Dappled shadows rose up their fronts and cascaded down their backs as they walked, the streets here quieter and residential, campfires springing up in courtyards made of the foundations of ruined buildings. A new architecture had emerged after the Dominion rout; small survival shelters replaced once-grand houses, family estates divided up among the living. Village wells revived, as did coordinated laundry days. Instead of multi-winged houses, the survivors build smaller dwellings with Federation and Bajoran relief supplies. Each house had an individualistic, patchwork look on the properties. Someone who loved glass-fronted sunrooms built here, another who enjoyed the aesthetics of doorway arches built there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were yet indicators of family and state pride. The entrance to each communal property was marked by metal placards announcing alliance and kinship of those who lived within. Bashir wondered if the infamous Cardassian devotion to the government would ever revive after the betrayal of the Dominion warlords.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here,” Tilor said, gesturing to a familiar length of stone wall. The gentle fire burned once again in her eyes. “I shall turn back now. Thank you for the escape hatch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are welcome. Please come to the clinic, once I have set up. I begin in three days.” Bashir took her hand once more and squeezed it in an offer of friendship.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Soon. I shall accompany Gili.” Tilor curtseyed, an odd gesture for a Cardassian, and turned to go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bashir wondered if she had picked up the custom from Terran literature; Garak had told him that a relief shipment that had arrived some months back contained an entire cargo container of literature padds from Earth, bodice-ripper romance novels among them. They had proven quite popular with women and men alike, and they made a circuitous route through Lakarian City. The consensus was that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Rebecca: The Taming of a Privateer Rogue</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the best of the selection, followed by </span>
  <em>
    <span>Inez Marie and the Vulcan Cowboys at Lupine Breeze Ranch.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The house was still and quiet when Bashir arrived, the foundations dark and fire pit banked. What had begun as a contingency dwelling in a gardener’s shed now opened into a small house of masonry walls cobbled together from quickset and local stone. Garak had written to him often, including updates of the slow rise of his house, the shed incorporated rather than discarded; it still served as Garak’s bedroom, though it had been almost entirely enveloped. The low-peaked roof reminded Bashir of the hiwada roofs on Shinto shrines, not shingled but covered with strips of thin wood-bark, layered to keep the rains and dust out. Practical, assembled from found materials. Such a humble answer to the once grand Estate of Tain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stepped through the gate just as the Blind Moon eased up behind the Illum one, and he paused as doubled shadows ghosted behind each plant in the garden. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Elim, you’ve outdone yourself,” Bashir murmured in awe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ragged stone walls almost entirely hid the magnificent garden that bloomed within, still vibrant as the southern hemisphere eased into its autumn. A few yellow roses caught moonlight and glowed, bioluminescent urli moths lighting and probing the blossoms for pollen. Vines curled and clung, trumpet flowers sighed open to attract nighttime pollinators, and a blast-burnt kuaar tree creaked in a cool wind that sprawled through the valley. Bashir could smell the scent of seven different flowers, a dozen herbs, and the dusty smell of the former glory of Cardassia threading through it all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another sound joined the rustle of the kuaar tree’s blade-like leaves. An electronic whine, on the edge of Bashir’s enhanced hearing. He froze, mentally kicking himself in the arse for the second time that evening. Of course Garak would have the place rigged with security devices. He was lucky he had not put his foot into something explosive or stunning or shocking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The whine died down, and after a moment of deliberation Bashir shifted a little to see if it would begin again. The garden lay silent, grey and black in shadow, save for the pale hint of flowers and the violet moths. He blew out a tense breath and walked with caution to the dark front door, footsteps crackling in the dust. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knocked at the slate-grey door, evidently scrounged from Tain’s ruined mansion and rehung on new hinges. Garak had left the blast marks and chips in the wood intact, and for a brief moment Bashir wondered if one of the blast marks had been the corona of one that had killed Mila. Garak’s mother, entombed somewhere under the foundation that lay to the left and now covered in flowering Cardassian thyme. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one answered. The shadows swirled with the sweet scent of herbs, the death scent of dust.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bashir began to turn back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>THOK. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A dagger thumped home in the cascading door lintel just left of Bashir’s cheek. He went rigid. Skin prickling. Blood ice cold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Damn it, my dear, what were you thinking? I could have killed you.” A familiar voice reeled from behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bashir smirked and relaxed. Shook his head and smiled in spite of the burn of adrenaline between his molars. Spoke without turning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello Garak. I missed you too.”</span>
</p>
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